


To be understood, as to understand

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Missing Scene, Porn with Feelings, Size Kink, lost weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Bedelia's honeymoon in Assisi, belated and bittersweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To be understood, as to understand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartsfilthylesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsfilthylesson/gifts).



> I envision this as happening somewhere between Secondo and Contorno, when Hannibal's capture has become almost (but not quite) inevitable. 
> 
> For the prompt "honeymoon"

Bedelia plays a concerto as Hannibal washes the dishes, fingers gliding smoothly over ivory and black keys, her notes as sparse and dreamy as Hannibal’s are heavy and baroque.

He walks up behind her as she plays, a noticeable spring in his step. He’s never happier than when he’s served his delicacies to unsuspecting but appreciative guests. “Philip Glass?” he hazards; his knowledge of music written after 1945 is rudimentary at best.

“His  _Orphée_  suite for piano,” she says, finishing with a quiet flourish. An appropriate soundtrack for life in the underworld.

Hannibal lays a hand on her shoulder, and twines a lock of her hair about his finger. “You have such a deft and delicate touch. I wish you would play more often.” He kisses her temple with newfound husbandly affection.

Bedelia stills, blood cooling to icewater in her veins. “There is no need for such an uxorious display, Hannibal. Your guests have departed. You need not pretend the adoring husband anymore.”

Hannibal turns quiet, runs his hand up and down her spine in a  _glissando_. “And if I’m not pretending?”

His question is one Bedelia does not have an answer for until hours later when they retire to bed. Instead of hugging the edge of their king-sized mattress, Bedelia reclines in the middle, a subtle invitation which Hannibal gladly accepts. Muscled forearms wrap themselves around her rib cage and he nuzzles her hair, tender as a newlywed until she falls asleep in his arms.

*****

The next morning there is a gleam in Hannibal’s eye she can’t quite place as he slides a train ticket across the counter to her alongside her coffee and cornetto.

“The museum is closed today—a bank holiday. I thought we might go away for the weekend.”

She eyes the ticket, first-class. She doesn’t know whether he is planning a romantic getaway or her demise. “Assisi?”

“I’ve never been.”

“Nor have I. Why the sudden need for a holiday?”

Hannibal turns almost bashful—she didn’t think it was possible for him to look this way, but he does. He brushes his thumb over her manicure, fingertips teasing the underside of her left wrist, the vein believed to run straight to the heart. “It occurred to me that we never had a honeymoon.”

“We’ve never even had a wedding night,” she quips.

“Do you object to one?”

She thinks of last night, the warmth of his body curled around her. “No. But I’m curious as to why you suddenly want one now. Traditionally, a honeymoon comes at the start of a marriage.”

Hannibal’s eyes dim sadly, and there might be something called regret in them. “Our time in Florence together is coming to a close…because of what I have set into motion. I want to make the best of the time we have left.”

She understands his reasoning. They have reached the endgame—it is making them both impulsive, incautious. “I’ll go and pack a bag, then.”

*****

They walk arm in arm in the cool spring air. Bedelia has exchanged her favorite Ferragamo pumps for soft suede ballet flats, the better for sight-seeing. It makes her feel tiny and fragile next to Hannibal without those three or four inches of extra height. But more independent, too, less likely to clutch his arm or turn her ankle on a cobblestone.

They tour the Basilica di San Francesco so that Hannibal may examine the crumbling Cimabue frescoes. Hannibal’s face is alight in wonder, charmed by every flying buttress and marble arch. Bedelia feels a queasy empathy for the dead saint, sickened that such a simple man should be immortalized by such an ostentatious display.

He takes her to the Basilica di Santa Chiara next, somewhat plainer, not as large as that of her friend and mentor, Francis. As they look upon the saint’s incorruptible bones, Hannibal embroiders upon her knowledge of saints Francis and Clare. He tells her how Clare had been a young noblewoman, how she had forsaken family and fortune after hearing Francis speak to follow his gospel of simplicity and become his disciple.

Bedelia wants to tell him that she is not his disciple, but the lie sticks in her mouth like toffee—she can’t spit it out.

Hannibal turns away from the glass display and tells her with a quirk, “Clare said that Francis shone luminous as gold to her, that in him she saw herself all clear and bright as if in a mirror. And in the moon, Francis saw her face, and in her face, he saw God. Brother Sun and Sister Moon they called them.”

“The sun and moon meet only during an eclipse. Theirs was a courtly love, not a passionate one,” she says carefully.

His eyes sparkle back at her, black diamonds in the dark of the saint’s tomb, alight with a secret that entices her. “Good thing we are not Clare and Francis then.”

Bedelia feels herself grow hot within the damp air of the crypt. She takes Hannibal’s hand and walks with him out of the darkness. They are two great sinners following in the footsteps of great saints.

*****

The white-gloved bellhop escorts them to their room. Hannibal has reserved the honeymoon suite. “The only room still available on such short notice,” he says, an explanation Bedelia does not entirely believe. Hannibal tips the bellhop generously and sends the boy on his way, turning the heavy brass key in the lock until the door yawns open before them.

His eyes dance and he presses a hand to the small of her back. “Shall I carry you over the threshold?”

“I prefer to walk in under my own steam,” Bedelia says, gliding away into the darkened room.

“Yes, you always do.” He closes the door with a click, not before hanging a small placard on the handle outside, the words  _Do Not Disturb_  printed in English, Italian, and French.

The room is grand and sufficiently opulent, quiet and filled with fresh-cut flowers like the boudoir of an enchanted maiden. Hannibal moves to inspect the champagne left chilling in the ice bucket, nodding in appreciation when he finds the vintage up to his standards.

Bedelia takes her valise and withdraws to the bath.

*****

After showering off a day of sweat and thirteenth-century dust, Bedelia removes the silver negligee from its case and drops it over her perfumed shoulders. It flows over her like water and shimmers iridescent, the color of a dragonfly’s wing. She bought it in Paris, but it has gone unworn, tucked away in a corner of her lavender-scented dresser. The embroidered lilies and ivy at the neckline scratch against her skin, hardening her nipples. The harder they become, the more she is aroused, a constant circuit. She opens the door.

Hannibal is waiting for her, shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned, tie and waistcoat abandoned. He looks her over appreciatively and hands her a glass of champagne. “To us, a peerless match,” he toasts.

“To us,” she echoes, fear and curiosity and desire bubbling up from within her, effervescent as the drink in her hand.

Hannibal sets aside his glass and takes hers from her, all the better to draw her in to his embrace, broad flat palms spanning the whole of her bare back with his hands. She is so minute without her heels, nearly a full foot shorter than him, and it is oddly satisfying to make him stoop to kiss her. Which he does, tenderly, hungrily, with gentle pressure until she opens her mouth. Her tongue meets his and suddenly she’s fisting his fine cambric dress shirt in her hands until he breaks the kiss.

He’s trembling. They’re both trembling. Their hands wander over each others’ shoulders and forearms, as if afraid to go any further, their faces a perfect mirror of desire and fear.

How strange to take off both their person suits and discover this act leaves them as shy as a pair of untutored newlyweds.

“You’re afraid, Hannibal. Of what?”

“Not afraid…this is very intimate. You see me, you know me…I’ve never,” is all he can say, whispering it into the crown of her hair. “You’re afraid, too, Bedelia. I…won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t.”  _Not tonight_.

“Then what is it?”

The truth rises up within her, floats out like helium, too hard to contain. “You wish to be seen…I do not.” A tear slips down her right cheek, then her left.

He kisses them both away. “And you are afraid…this _…_ will crack you open.”

It’s absurd, given what he knows about her, given what she’s done, technically and otherwise. “This is very intimate, as you said.”

“So…we must be very careful with one another, careful to avoid each other’s sensitive places.” He draws her back toward the bed, undressing for her until he is wearing only his silk shorts. He sits upright against the pillow and holds his arm out for her.

Bedelia goes to him, mesmerized, and lets him guide her to rest between his legs, his chest against her back. His lips trail along her hairline to her earlobe, while his hands cup her breasts, teasing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She gaps, and he keeps teasing, but he does not relent as he moves his lips to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, searching and testing each one to find the most sensitive spot. He scrapes his teeth against her neck ( _oh yes, there_  she thinks) as he dips his fingers beneath her gown, rolling her nipples, pinching them hard until she cries out.

Pleased with the reaction he was able to provoke in her, he removes his right hand from her breast and slides it underneath the hem of her gown to the junction of her thighs. He brushes his knuckles against her curls experimentally, and she shivers, reflexively opening wider. Skilled fingers dance against her clit before slipping inside. “Oh Bedelia, you’re so very wet,” he murmurs into her ear. It’s such an obvious and mundane thing to say, yet from him it sounds more erotic than anything she’s ever heard.

“Yes,” she gasps in a breathy whisper.

He teases her and fingers her with slow, deliberate precision. She tries to wriggle away at one point, to turn the tables on him and the erection that has been hardening against her back, but an arm clamps around her waist. He forces her to stay still and absorb this brand of delicious, excruciating pleasure awhile longer.

His fingers have found her G-spot now and she feels herself flirting with the edge. The room smells of champagne and roses and sex and they’ve barely even started.

“Hannibal,” she says, fingernails digging in to his wrist.

“Yes?”

He’s going to make her say it. “I’m so close...I don’t want to…not like this.  _Please_.”

His hand stills inside of her and for a moment she knows he is seriously considering disobeying her wishes, forcing her to come over and over in whatever way he would like. He kisses her temple chastely and releases his hold on her, allowing her to climb out of his lap. She sits up and strips off that thin scrap of silk separating her skin from his.

Within a moment, he is nude and on top of her, hard hot length of his erection pressing against her. His eyes are sweetly intense, and she almost wants to erupt with nervous laughter that the two of them, such sleek and deadly predators, are about to engage in something as comfortably vanilla as the missionary position.

And then he enters her and all rational thought slips away as her world narrows to that ridge of sensitive flesh surrounding her entrance. He withdraws and inches in, stimulating that same bundle of nerves over and over until the whole length of him is sheathed inside her.

 _It’s so big_  is her first thought; Bedelia bites her lip hard enough to draw blood to keep herself from expressing it aloud. He’s so undeniably girthy and well,  _large_ , Bedelia swears she can feel every ridge and vein straining against her walls, stretching her almost to the point of pain. Her skin flushes, her nipples and clitoris swell with blood, every inch of her skin tingling with heightened sensitivity.

Hannibal smiles down on her as he rolls his hips against her, preening as if he’s read her mind. “You’re even more beautiful undone,” he tells her, quickening his thrusts.

Her back arches and she wraps her legs around his hips. Her cunt clamps around him like a hungry mouth, with no thought save her own selfish pleasure. She thinks briefly of vagina dentata and succubi as she envelops him, tighter than a vise.

The last thing she does before she comes hard and quick around him is close her eyes. She doesn’t want to be seen, she  _can’t_.

If Hannibal’s disappointed to see her hide from him one more time, he doesn’t show it. He withdraws, still erect, and rolls her on her side, pulling her against him and plunging inside in one fluid motion. His leg captures hers and he is so feverishly warm against the length of her it’s like being enveloped by a silken fire. His lips find their way to her neck as his hand seeks hers and guides it to her clit. “Again,” he whispers, half-request, half-command. Bedelia’s small fingers teach Hannibal’s larger ones, and he is an apt and humble pupil, greedy to learn the art of pleasuring her. It’s that slight edge of power over him, feeling his hands under hers, that sends her crashing to a release so total it leaves her trembling for hours afterward.

She is undone, unwound, and she worries she’ll never be able to wind herself back together again.

*****

It’s the soft knock on the door that drags her from a sleep fathoms deep, the mattress shifting as Hannibal leaves their bed. He returns with a trolley piled high with a silver coffee service and two covered trays, the room service he had thoughtfully ordered the evening before.

Bedelia squints at the late morning sunlight filtered through the curtains and gathers the sheets around her naked breasts, suddenly shy. Hannibal busies himself preparing her coffee, spreading preserves on a corner of toast. She catches her reflection in a mirror, immaculate hair wild and mussed, dewy glow in her cheeks; she looks well-fucked.

They eat breakfast in near-silence, a reticence that is uncharacteristic for both of them. Finally, Hannibal snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her close. He fists a lock of hair in his hands and sinks his lips down on her collarbone, giving her a lingering kiss. When she does not respond he asks, “Is something the matter?”

How best to explain the bittersweet pain in her heart, the clouded rainy day feeling of the morning after. The sun and moon meet rarely, only to eclipse. “It is just that I wish we did not have to return to Florence so soon,” she finally says.

Hannibal hears what she does not say. He does not answer, merely caresses her curling hair.

“Is it really so necessary to return?” In Florence death and danger waits for both of them, shadowing every sunlit piazza.

“For me there can be no other course,” he tells her matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument.

Bedelia nods sadly. Her well-guarded heart feels bruised.

“All the more reason to savor every moment. I will remember our time together here fondly, and revisit it often in my memory palace. Perhaps it is time for you to make a palace of your own. Let me show you,” Hannibal says. He holds her tenderly, alternating instructions and kisses in her ear. He makes her his disciple again, teaching her how to soak in the rose-gold Umbrian light and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek and preserve them in amber. She feels sadness and sweetness and nostalgia for a moment not yet gone and  _you must remember this_  she thinks. They’ve come to their  _Casablanca_  ending and it’s nearly time to pack Hannibal off into the arms of his destiny, his beloved Will Graham.

A lady always knows when to leave. The trick will be to leave him before he decides he must leave her. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from the [Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi](http://www.easwaran.org/the-prayer-of-st-francis.html). Who knew my lapsed Catholicism was going to come in so handy some day for writing Hannibal smut. I'm so happy it's good for something. 
> 
> FYI: Bedelia is playing [Orphée and the Princess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-shlwf8rp_0&list=RD-shlwf8rp_0). Hannibal can keep his Bach, Bedelia is a modernist, and modern classical music is still very beautiful. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr as bedannibal-lectaurier where I light a whole cathedral full of candles for Bedelia's survival


End file.
